


so i stayed in the darkness with you

by dollsome



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5260067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments of darkness and light. (Effie adjusts to life, and Haymitch, in District 13.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Haymitch/Effie has been my guilty Hunger Games Priority ever since I read the books waaay back when ("I am supposed to care about Katniss more than you!" I screamed at Effie's sporadic page time, the struggle was real, etc.), and I have wanted to write fic seriously since I finished reading the first book back in 2010 and declared to myself, ‘Self, I know no one else in the world must ship this – you really done picked a random one this time – but YOU GOTTA WRITE SOME FIC.'
> 
> Hayffie fandom, thank you for existing. You are unstoppable and glorious.
> 
> Anyway, to commemorate the end of the series -- and get all my feels out -- I had to finally write something.
> 
> This is set in both Mockingjay films, so there are some spoilers for Pt. 2, although nothing too major.
> 
> Lastly: This is more a series of vignettes than anything approaching an actual storyline, but I've decided to divide it up into chapters because I wound up writing much more than I'd originally anticipated. Oops!

Here is the thing that no one considers: 

Effie knows what it is to be afraid, even if everyone around her thinks she mustn’t have a clue. She has lived with fear every day of her life. It’s nothing like what the people of the Districts have faced. No blood, no empty bellies. No obvious reason to rise up. It’s a quiet fear, as constant as breathing. For a long while, she didn’t even know it was there. She only felt its sharp edges and didn’t know what to do with them. So she smiled bigger. Shone brighter. Listened to what the Capitol told her.

 

+

 

“You couldn’t have stayed,” Haymitch tells her on the worst day of her life.

She is sitting in the ugliest place she has ever seen, which—considering how many times she’s been to District 12—is saying _something_. This gray little room is apparently her new home in District 13. _District 13_ , and all she has are the clothes she’s wearing and a foggy memory of Haymitch asking her to tear her eyes away from the Quarter Quell and have a drink with him.

‘You don’t have to watch this,’ he said, seeing how it tortured her to see her poor children endure those horrors, and she thought, _How sweet. How kind of him, for once._

She should have known.

Her head is still cloudy, giving all of this the odd quality of an awful dream, but she knows it isn’t one. When she does have nightmares (and she does these days, even though she never used to), there’s more color to them. Not this hideous nothingness.

“You were already in too deep,” Haymitch says. She hates how composed he sounds. “There’s no way Snow would have left you alone.”

“So you’re saving me, is that it?” she hisses. “Am I supposed to say thank you? Fine! Very well! Thank you, Haymitch. Thank you for drugging me and bringing me to this ghastly hellhole, away from everyone I know and care about, away from all of my worldly possessions—”

“You don’t have family, you’ve told me that—”

“I have _dozens_ of friends,” Effie shrieks, “from the most elite social circles, and they’ll be very concerned—”

“You don’t get it,” Haymitch snarls. He grabs her shoulders with strong, impatient hands and stares right into her eyes. She considers scratching _his_ eyes out. “You’re in this now. What was that you told us? We’re a team? Well, this is what it means to be part of the team. Sorry you didn’t get the chance to pack up all your pretty things, or give goodbye kisses to all your darling friends in the Capitol, but you’re alive, and you can help Katniss. She’s gonna need you. That’s what matters.”

Somewhere deep down, she begins to know that he’s right. It makes her furious.

“You _kidnapped_ me,” she says angrily.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he taunts. “Maybe we should have left you there. At least then Peeta would have some company.”

Effie freezes. “What?”

“They got him,” Haymitch says, not bothering to soften the news one bit. “Snow’s got him, and the Capitol bombed 12 to bits. But please. Tell me more about your terrible problems.”

Effie thinks she might vomit.

“You’re a brute,” she says, tears springing to her eyes, and his fingers dig into her shoulders. She glares at him. “Let. Go. Of. Me.”

For a second, he doesn’t listen to her, and she wonders what will happen, what he will do instead. Her breath catches in her throat. She can feel his on her face. Tinged with alcohol, of course.

Then he lets go of her abruptly, and she sways a little, dizzy without him.

“Great to have you on the team,” he sneers, striding toward the door.

She grabs the only thing in her reach—a plastic cup of water; she dimly recalls him pouring it for her as she first came to—and throws it, aiming for his head.

It misses and hits the wall beside him. At least he gets splashed. He swears and storms out, not looking back at her. As soon as the door slides shut, she bursts into tears.

There’s a gray jumpsuit on the foot of this bed ( _if_ you can call it a bed), waiting for her. Clearly someone expects her to wear that tepid atrocity. Looking at it, she sobs harder. If only she’d had some time to gather her things. If only she’d known. If only. If only.

(Peeta, Peeta, her poor boy.)

 

+

 

The next time she sees Haymitch, it’s after he’s returned from the rehabilitation facility and she’s begun working with Plutarch and Katniss. She feels much better; it’s good to have a purpose again, to feel like she’s doing something. Contributing something. Even if she’s doing it while confined to the dullest shade of gray imaginable. A burlap sack would have more couture potential, but she does her best.

After their meeting on how to solve the problem of Katniss’s hopelessness in front of the camera, Haymitch catches up with her in the corridor, greeting her with a low whistle.

“Well, look who’s back and full of good ideas,” she says, smiling.

“Right back at you,” he says. “Good work in there.”

“You too. You have very strong instincts for this sort of thing, whether or not you wish to admit it.”

“Well, I learned from the best,” he says pleasantly, then adds, “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Ugh.” She shudders theatrically. “Don’t remind me.”

“No, it’s good,” he protests.

“ _Good_? Hmph. Hardly. I’ve done what I can, but even I’m not a miracle worker.”

“It’s _interesting_ , then,” he amends with a grin. “I like the scarf.”

“It does have a certain understated flare, doesn’t it?” Effie agrees, preening.

“I always wondered what was going on under all those ruffles.”

“You’ve had more opportunities to find out than most,” she reminds him airily. She isn’t in the habit of referring to their past, but it’s so _boring_ down here that any opportunity to flirt will do.

“Yeah, well,” Haymitch says, “most of those memories are a little fuzzy.”

“What a pity for you,” Effie says blithely.

“You know,” he says, catching her hand and bringing her to a standstill, “my head’s much clearer these days.”

“Oh?” she says, holding back her smile.

“I’m paying all kinds of attention to all kinds of things.” He gives her a look that makes it very clear just what sorts of things. She feels a happy thrill run through her, for once without the irritation that usually accompanies these little slips in their professional relationship.

She supposes it’s not much of a professional relationship anymore. Strictly speaking.

And isn’t _that_ an intriguing idea?

He keeps on staring, making open lechery inconveniently charming as always, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. She decides that she might as well give him a bit of a chase. Goodness knows they could all use some fun around here.

“Manners, Mr. Abernathy,” she teases, tapping his nose. Then she quickens her pace, slipping out of his grasp and leaving him behind.

She hears him chuckling. She puts a little spring in her step.


	2. II

The Capitol bombs District 13, and Effie learns how it feels to fear for her own life. It’s not the bombing itself that frightens her the most, although that’s no picnic. It’s the evacuation.

It seems ridiculous that safety measures are the thing to scare her most of all, but for the first time she knows what it’s like to have the world fall into chaos around you and be trapped in it. Even when the riot broke out in District 11 during the Victory Tour, they had been behind closed doors, safe and away from the violence.

This time, she’s right in the heart of it.

People cry out and stumble around her as they hurry down the stairs, never mind that they’re all supposed to be proceeding with caution, in an _orderly fashion_ , and she tries her best not to slow down; she knows that if she does, she’ll be run right over. Squashed like a bug. Like nothing. But the first bomb drops and the world trembles around her, the stairs rattling; the sprinklers go off, and she’s suddenly drenched and there’s so much screaming, so much agony. She trips, missing one of the steps, and stumbling knocks the breath out of her. She clings to the railing, half standing, while bodies dash by her, shoving into her without a bit of guilt. Someone’s elbow jams into her ribs, and she gasps. The world rushes on around her, too fast and cruel to have room for her; she feels dizzy and sick and suddenly very sure that this is what it was like. To be in the arena. To let the games begin. All of those children. Their names in her hands.

She cannot seem to move, and hates it. She has always tried to keep a cool head in a crisis.

_This is it, this is it,_ she thinks, or maybe says out loud. _It's over._

And then:

“You’re okay,” Haymitch says into her ear, putting his arm around her to guide her back up. “Just keep moving." 

He holds onto her like that the rest of the way down. Finally, she is safe and sound, sitting on one of the horrible bunk beds, trying to catch her breath. It isn’t easy.

The whole room shakes, the bombs rumbling, dust falling from new-formed cracks in the ceiling like snow. The air is full of screams, peoples’ voices blending with the blaring alarms. She’s never been in the middle of something so horrible, never even imagined what it might be like. Haymitch keeps his arms around her. She can feel him shaking. The lights go out, plunging everything into darkness. One by one, the lanterns switch on in protest.

And then, at last—after what feels like hours, but can that be right?—everything goes still.

She can’t quite trust the stillness, not after the world erupting around them. Every single person seems too afraid to speak, as if it might bring the bombing back.

A stark silence drags on, punctured at last by children’s wails. Absurdly, she envies them their freedom to cry openly. She thinks of Katniss, somewhere in this darkness too; she closes her eyes, and swallows the lump in her throat.

It takes her a long while to notice Haymitch’s hand rubbing her back. She doesn’t feel quite inside her own body.

“That all they got?” he says sardonically.

She isn’t in the mood to joke.

“Living like this,” she gasps, “skittering around like vermin, hunted like _animals_ , knowing that you there’s nothing to stop you from dying ingloriously at a second’s notice ...” She takes a deep breath, but can’t seem to find her composure. “I nearly got trampled to death, Haymitch. Trampled! How would that look on my headstone?”

“Do they usually put cause of death on a headstone?” he ponders.

Her voice quavers. “ _How_ do you keep going?”

“The hell if I know,” Haymitch says. “Why do you think I’ve been trying to drink myself to death all these years?”

“That’s not funny,” she says sharply.

“Wasn't joking,” he answers.

She feels a sting of sorrow. She has always known this about him. Still, it hurts to hear it, especially now.

She leans away from him, and he takes the hint and removes his hand from her back. They sit without speaking.

“Listen,” he says at last, sighing, “I’m sorry we brought you here. It wasn’t originally part of the plan. But I didn’t want to leave you to whatever fate they had in store for you.”

“You could have at least _told_ me.”

“Ah ah ah. Strictly confidential information.”

“Well, I’m part of the team, aren’t I?” she says tauntingly.

He lets out a grim bark of a laugh. “Touché. Would you have come along if you had the choice?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, and doesn’t like the uncertainty left hanging in the air. She sits up taller. Stiff upper lip. “It’s just as well that I’m here. I expect I’d be faring even worse in the Capitol. Although at least I’d be doing it in style.”

He chuckles, patting her knee.

She thinks of Peeta—so pale and sickly in those terrible interviews, forced to tell those lies. She hates to imagine what he must be suffering right now because of it. It’s a good thing she wasn’t left behind. There’s no way she could have been so strong. So brave.

“I’m glad to help Katniss,” she says, “but now that we’ve sorted out the wardrobe and the propos—and they _needed_ sorting out, don’t get me wrong—what’s the point in me being here? What can I possibly contribute? What’s the point of ...”

_Any of it,_ she does not say.

Haymitch looks at her. She knows her desperation must be plain on her face.

“Like you said,” he says. “Style. District 13 is in need of some serious style.”

Once his words sink in, she shakes her head and smiles. He smiles back, seeming encouraged by her reaction.

“There’s no denying that,” she says. “These jumpsuits! Ugh. And don’t get me started on the president’s hair.”

“By all means,” he says, “get started. Although you might want to keep your voice down.”

“That gray!” she whispers, leaning closer to his ear. “So drab. So severe. When obviously a nice purple would suit her much better." 

“If you ever tell Alma Coin that she needs purple hair,” Haymitch whispers back solemnly, “I want to be at that meeting.”

"Deal," she promises.

They sink into laughter, and for a second it’s easy to forget where they are, and why.

And then another child’s cry rises up, followed by the _shh_ es of its parents. Their comforting seems to be futile; the poor thing keeps wailing.

Effie holds back a sigh, tears pricking her eyes.

She feels Haymitch’s gaze on her, and then his hand over hers.

“We’re nowhere near the end of this fight,” he says. “And Plutarch reached out to you because you’re the expert. Our girl’s going to need more coaching, more speeches. That’s your area.”

“Coaching she ignores. Speeches she doesn’t use.”

“That’s Katniss. Don’t take it personally.”

“I suppose,” Effie says, smiling weakly.

They sit in silence, listening to the child cry.

“How do you live like this, hmm?” he muses.

“Suggestions very much appreciated.” She tries to sound cavalier, but spoils the effect by sniffling.

“I guess ...” He bites his lip, thinking. “I guess you just have to choose to fight.”

“Well,” she says with a nervous huff of laughter, “I am _not_ a fighter.”

“Are you kidding me?” He affectionately tugs on a lock of hair that’s slipped from her turban. “You’ve been fighting me all these years. Winning most of the time, too. What’s a war with the damn Capitol compared to that?"

He smiles at her, all of his usual mocking replaced with kindness, and she feels a rush of affection for him. The one thing she hasn’t lost.

She takes his face in her hands and kisses him, soft and sure. He freezes for a moment, surprised, and then wraps his arms around her, pulling her in.

It isn’t their first kiss by any means. They’ve worked together for a very long time, under very stressful circumstances, and there have been occasional lapses— _drastic_ lapses—in professionalism, usually after Effie’s had too much wine. It hasn’t happened in years; she’d gotten more prudent and he’d gotten more drunk with every year that passed. But now she’s without her rules and he’s without his liquor, and perhaps that means they’re entering a new era.

“Thank you,” she says after they break apart, both a little breathless. She touches his cheek, his stubble tickling her palm. “That was a very sweet thing to say.”

“Uh,” he says, dazed, “sure. No problem.”

She smiles a little, liking this—the chance to fluster him for a change. He puts his arm around her, pulling her close. She rests her head on his shoulder, and they wait out the darkness together.


	3. III

When she hears that Peeta’s been rescued, that all of the captured victors have, Effie feels such happiness.

Like most happiness these days, it’s short lived.

 

+

 

She visits Katniss in the infirmary. The poor thing is drowsy from morphling, wearing a bulky neck brace. When Effie approaches, Prim gives her a tight smile, hugs Katniss, and leaves.

Effie has always found Prim wonderful. She supposes she can understand why the girl might not return the feeling.

Katniss lifts her hand weakly in greeting. She can’t talk. Haymitch told Effie all about that beforehand. Peeta did quite a number on her vocal cords.

Effie smiles at her and sits daintily on the side of the bed.

“You know, I like this,” she says, tapping the neck brace with a careful finger. “It’s the closest thing to innovative fashion that I’ve seen in this dullsville district.”

The corner of Katniss’s mouth twitches, just slightly. Still, her eyes are weary, oddly blank. Effie feels a flash of nostalgia for the old surliness that used to blaze in them.

“Oh, darling girl,” Effie says, pressing her fingers lightly to Katniss’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Katniss nods slightly. Effie kisses her forehead.

“We will find a way to—to snap him out of this,” she promises, and hopes her smile is more convincing than it feels. Now more than ever, it’s important to look on the bright side. “He has too many people who love him too much to just let him slip away. He’ll remember that." 

Katniss doesn’t nod this time. Just stares forward. Effie blinks back tears, and holds her poor girl’s hand.

 

+

 

Effie loves both of her victors equally, but she’s always had a soft spot for Peeta. Such a gracious gentleman, always so pleasant and thoughtful. Whenever Katniss and Haymitch would balk at one of her suggestions, united in their prickliness, Peeta would hear her out patiently, and treat her with respect. Perhaps it was a respect she’d never even deserved.

And so even though she hates the thought of seeing him in his current state, she goes with Haymitch to watch him through the glass.

At the sight of him, all of her worry vanishes. He looks terrible, but it’s Peeta all the same, their Peeta, back where he belongs. With them. She wants to sit at his bedside, smooth his hair, coo worriedly over the sharpened angles of his face. It’s the least she can do, after how kind he’s always been to her.

But it isn’t wise. Just because he’s a weapon aimed at Katniss, Haymitch explains, it doesn’t mean his memories of Effie will be fond.

“I’m not saying that to hurt your feelings,” Haymitch says. “Devoting yourself to those kids is the best thing you’ve ever done. I’m just saying, there’s a good chance he associates you with one of the worst experiences of his life; it’s not safe, and the risk isn’t worth it.”

She presses her fingers to the glass, watching Peeta stare blankly into space just as Katniss had. “I just want him to know that I—”

“He will,” Haymitch promises, although of course there is no possible way to know that, and very little reason to hope.

She nods and puts a hand to her mouth, holding back tears. Haymitch rests a hand on her shoulder, and together they look through the glass at their boy.

 

+

 

“I never used to understand it,” Effie says sleepily, resting against Haymitch’s bare shoulder. He plays idly with her hair. It made her uncomfortable at first. Having someone else see your real hair in the Capitol is akin to a much more blatant faux pas in the Districts. Running through the street with no pants on, maybe. But they’ve been at this for awhile now, and she’s grown to like that he likes it. She supposes it must make her more like the women from 12. More real in his eyes.

“Understand what?” he mumbles.

“The idea of loving someone so much that it would move you to tears. Clothes, yes. People, no." 

Haymitch snorts.

“Love isn’t really that way in the Capitol. You _adore_ things, of course. And people. And parents are wild about their children. But the idea of loving someone so much it hurts—you don’t really find that. It’s not proper.”

“Go figure,” Haymitch says, sounding not at all surprised.

“And then the Games would come around,” she continues. She doesn’t know why she’s thinking about this, and yet it won’t get out of her head. She suspects she won’t be able to sleep until she’s said it out loud. “And you would know that  _finally_ , here was the chance to really feel something. Besides ... besides full, or bored, or besotted with the new fall fashion line. Here were people whose lives were so different. So important. And we would sit and watch and feel for them and cry for them, and it was like—like coming to life yourself. Like waking up. The idea of working with victors ... it was magical to me when I was a girl.”

She can still feel the old giddiness rise up in her at the memories. It makes her stomach turn. She thinks of Peeta, a killer waking up in him whenever he looks at the girl he loves. Maybe this is what the Capitol does best: it turns people against their own hearts. Or maybe just twists their hearts into monstrous things.

“I watched you,” she recalls. “In your Quarter Quell.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that before,” Haymitch says dryly.

She cringes, thinking of all the fawning silly things she’d said back when they first met. Even though he was far more of a disaster than she’d anticipated, she had been so awe of him. Until he’d thrown up on her shoes. 

She had been so disappointed. All her hopes dashed of a valiant hero who’d sweep her off her feet. A Capitol citizen could never fall in love with a victor from District 12, of course; that would be like falling in love with a farm goat. But a little flirtation had seemed so delicious to her young self.

“What monsters we all were,” she says, ashamed.

He brings her hand to his lips and kisses it, but he doesn’t argue.

She can hardly blame him for that.

“But they’ll see,” she presses on. “The people in the Capitol. They’re not all bad. Some are, of course, but most of them ... They just don’t know any better, that’s all. They’ll come to understand, like I have. One day.”

Haymitch gives her a look. “So we’ll all live happily ever after having Capitol/District dinner parties, huh?”

“My friends would _hate_ you,” Effie says, laughing a little at the thought. “The ones who’ve met you already do.”

“Considering what your friends are like,” he says, “I take that as a compliment."

She swats at his chest, and he laughs.

It’s such a lovely thought. Her two worlds, becoming one.

“I suppose they’re not safe anymore, are they?” she says softly.

“None of us are safe,” he points out.

“No,” she agrees, and doesn’t press the matter.

She suspects the odds of a happily ever after for her must be very low.


	4. IV

Effie is walking out of the cafeteria after a positively mundane breakfast of water and what she charitably dubs gruel. A year ago it would have been the breakfast of her nightmares, but she’s grown accustomed to having no standards beyond _I must consume it to live_. It’s an ordinary morning. That is, until a man coming into the cafeteria mutters, “Capitol bitch.”

His voice is so low that she wonders if she misheard, but when she turns to look, he’s watching her, hatred clear on his face. She realizes that he’s more a boy than a man; he can’t be much older than sixteen. He’s gangly and thin with a patch of angry red zits on his forehead. Once she meets his eyes, he looks back down and hurries away. She knows he won’t give her any real trouble. She’s very familiar with scared children lashing out.

Part of her wants to give him a good scolding. The _Ex_ cuse _me, young man?_ burns on her lips. But then she looks into the cafeteria and finds a sea of unfamiliar faces. Haymitch is visiting Katniss in the infirmary, and Plutarch is tucked up conspiring with President Dull Hair like always. For the moment, she’s without allies.

So she straightens her clothes, pushes up her sunglasses, and keeps walking away.

It’s the only time she’s been spoken to like that, but some of the looks she’s gotten over the weeks have told her the same thing plainly enough. She knows no one would dare harm her—not when she’s so close with the higher-ups, with the Mockingjay herself. But it hurts all the same.

When she reaches her quarters, she goes straight to her most precious belongings. Her wig is a little the worse for wear, but nothing some tender loving care won’t fix. Her pink dress is nearly finished. She resolves to debut them at the next possible opportunity. The next cause for celebration, assuming another such instance ever makes its way to this place.

She won’t be shamed into hiding herself. Not when she is here, and she is trying. These people aren’t the only ones who can rebel.

 

+

 

“Beautiful,” Effie declares, her eyes bright with tears. She clasps her hands over her heart. “Just beautiful.”

Haymitch grunts in response, but Effie decides that it’s a less ornery grunt than usual.

“To finally see some joy in this wretched place,” Effie continues happily, watching Finnick and Annie swirl around the makeshift dance floor, surrounded by revelers but so clearly lost in their own little world. “Granted, the dancing is rather provincial, but at least there _is_ dancing.”

She watches the dancers for a moment, then turns and gives him a beseeching look.

“ _No_ ,” Haymitch says. He manages to pack a lifetime’s resistance into the tiny word. These District 12 victors—always so stubborn.

“Fine,” she huffs.

“I’m sure you could get one of these other dashing gents to take you for a spin on the floor,” he adds with a smirk, gesturing around the room.

“I’m sure I could,” she agrees lightly, mostly for the sake of banter. She’s been here for months, and most of these people still look at her like she’s some sort of freak. Never mind how friendly she tries to be—and she has begun to try.

Then again, so many of them have watched her take their children away year after year. Effie tries to remind herself of these things. To be patient with them. To see— _really_ see—things from their points of view. One day they’ll realize that she understands, and she means well.

_Capitol bitch._

Effie shakes off the thought and smiles brighter. She focuses on the music, so quaint and merry. It isn’t the sort that they’d play at a Capitol celebration. There is something rustic about it, something that makes her think of the dreary square of District 12 and wonder if there had been some beauty in that place she had never noticed.

“So what’s the problem?” Haymitch asks, sly. “None of these boys to your liking?”

“I can’t just leave you standing on the sidelines alone,” she replies. “Imagine how pitiful you’d look.”

“So this is you doing me a favor,” he tests.

“Precisely,” she says, and gives him a brilliant smile.

He rolls his eyes, but smiles back.

“I think everyone needed this,” she declares. “One night where we can all turn our thoughts away from all of this horrible tragedy.”

“You know what the real tragedy is? A wedding with no booze.”

“Oh, hush,” she says, slapping his arm lightly.

He scowls.

“You’re doing very well,” she adds, softer. “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, uncomfortable, and exhales sharply. “It’s not like there’s a choice.”

“Still,” she insists. She slips her fingers into his and squeezes his hand reassuringly, just for a moment. They’ve both agreed that there’s no sense in public displays of affection under the circumstances, but tonight they’re hardly noticeable. Not with such a beautiful couple front and center.

Effie watches the newlyweds twirl around the floor. The music settles into something less cheery, more slow and romantic, and Finnick pulls Annie into his arms. To think both of them have known such incredible suffering. At least for now, you can see none of it on their faces.

Despite herself, she imagines what a magnificent propo this will make. How people will ooh and ahh all around Panem watching such a beautiful scene, love triumphing against all odds. If anything could sway the people of the Capitol, it’s this. Ugliness doesn’t work to change minds in the Capitol; all this talk of war and justice, it only makes them afraid. But give them something lovely—something bright and glimmering with hope—and they just might listen. No one else here understands that, but Effie does.

She saw it begin to happen, before.

“I can’t help wishing that it were them,” she admits aloud, her voice wavering slightly. She never can keep from crying on a sentimental occasion. “That we had gotten to see that wedding—”

Haymitch knows right away who she’s talking about. Katniss and Peeta are never far from his thoughts either.

“You and the rest of the Capitol viewers,” he remarks dryly. “Sending kids off to fight to the death’s all well and good until two of them start making googly eyes at each other. It was a smart strategy.”

“It was more than a strategy and you know it,” Effie scolds. “They’re so young, and they love each other so dearly. They deserved some joy, and peace, and babies—”

“I know,” Haymitch says, resting his hand on the small of her back, and she gets ahold of herself.

Peeta’s sweetness stolen. Katniss with those haunted eyes, bruises on her neck, her voice raspy as a tired old woman’s. It isn’t fair.

She had seen Katniss earlier, twirling around with her sister, but now she can’t spot her in the crowd. Effie supposes the poor girl wanted to retire early. After all she’s suffered, who could blame her for not knowing what to do in the face of happiness?

She sniffles in spite of herself.

“Hey,” Haymitch says.

She looks over at him, and he holds his hand out in an invitation.

Effie gasps, delighted.

“None of those fancy Capitol moves,” he orders. “You try any of that, I’ll step on your toes and make it look like an accident.”

“If you step on my toes, I’m sure it _will_ be an accident,” she replies, but smiles to show that she’s teasing. “You, Mr. Abernathy, are a positively hopeless dancer.”

“Maybe, _Ms. Trinket,_  that’s just because we’ve never danced before when I was sober."

She sighs with faux weariness. “There’s only one way to find out, I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says as she slips her hand into his.

“But don’t you step on my toes,” she warns. “I spent hours making these shoes look presentable. Do you know the kind of effort it took to put together an ensemble like this in these circumstances?”

“Effie,” he says with a crooked smile, “I can’t begin to imagine.”

“ _Well_ ,” she says, “first I had to completely take apart the dress I was wearing when I got here and turn it into something new; I can’t very well be seen in the same outfit twice, can I?”

“Hell no,” Haymitch says amiably, putting his free hand on her waist.

“I know that the people here have more important things on their minds,” Effie says as they slip into a waltz, “but _still_. It’s a matter of principle.”

 “Oh, absolutely.”

“And so, for the first time in my life, I had to labor with my own two hands, and I must say, it wasn’t _nearly_ as bad as—”

— _you’ve all made it sound all these years_. The sentence finishes itself in her head, but she catches it before it comes out of her mouth. She doubts anyone is listening to them; everyone seems swept up in their own merrymaking. But she knows better than to let those things slide anymore. Even in her thoughts.

“And?” Haymitch prods.

“And?” she says lightly.

“I assume the story doesn’t stop there. It was just getting good.”

“Yes, well.” She smiles. “A girl needs to preserve a little mystery.”

“Ooh. Mystery. I like that.”

She giggles, and he pulls her close. Dancing cheek to cheek, they’re not so different from any of the other couples swaying on the floor. In his arms, she almost feels at home here, almost feels like she might belong in the heart of this tired hopeful new world.


End file.
